Illogical
by HarleySavage
Summary: The Christmas Party at Baker Street has come to a close and a little too much champagne spurs Molly into something she would never usually do causing Sherlock to make a shocking confession.


It was the annual Christmas Party at Baker Street. While Sherlock had begrudgingly given in to Johns repeated petitions in the past, he found that this year he was rather eager to be surrounded by all the people he cared about. The events of the past year had taught him an appreciation that he had previously lacked. Being shot had exposed his priorities, as fire always does, but in death one cannot mourn those you have left behind. The short exile, however, had left an emptiness that seeped from his chest and permeated his bones as everything he cared for was taken from him, the contemplation of a life without his friends leaving him with no reason to exist. The reprieve had saved his life in more ways than one. On his return, he had foiled Morans fake Morairty plan with renewed vigour with that realisation spurring him on. And so as the festive season closed upon him, he found himself longing to be surrounded by the people he had fought for, the people who had fought for him. He looked around the room at the smiling faces of everyone he cared for and felt a contentment he had never felt before.

Gifts had been exchanged, alcohol consumed and food had been overeaten and the night drew slowly to a close. John and Mary had excused themselves with Hannah earlier. Shortly after, Mrs Hudson declared it was time for her to go to bed and Greg had offered to walk her down on his way out.

Molly took the last sip of her champagne and stood up, stumbling the smallest bit as she did. She should know better than to drink champagne, the bubbles always made her slightly giddy, but she loved it so much. The jovial mood of the evening might have led to slight overindulgence but she hadn't felt this happy and secure in a long time.

"Well, I think that means I've had enough," she giggled. "I'll leave you now Sherlock, you can have your flat back." She smiled at him before walking to the kitchen to deposit her glass into the sink. A look flashed over his face but it was gone before she could pinpoint the emotion behind it.

She walked back towards the lounge where Sherlock had risen from his armchair.

"Thank you for having me, Sherlock." She blushed at her words. "No, sorry...I mean, thanks for having me over. For inviting me." The flush spread from her cheeks to her ears and down her neck.

A small smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he took a few steps closer, a soft, baritone chuckle echoing from his chest. "It was my pleasure Molly"

He looked down at her with a softness that had become normal since his return from the fall. A softness he seemed to reserve only for her. A softness that drew her in without consciousness, pulling her to him until she found her lips pressed lightly against his, her hands gently on his neck, without any recollection of putting them there.

Sherlock gently grabbed her wrists, bringing their hands down between them as he drew back from her kiss, keeping his eyes closed. "Don't...Molly," The words sounded thick, as though they had to claw their way up his throat. "Please."

He opened his eyes and gazed at her face, saw the mortification and rejection that froze her in place. She quickly pulled her wrists from his fingers, bringing them to rest over her mouth as she stuttered her apology.

"I'm s-sorry. I'm so sor-ry. I don't, don't know why...I read that w-wrong. I'm sorry. I'll just go!".

Sherlock could see her panic rising. Could see the hurt she wrestled with at his rejection, could see the dejection triumph over any hope she had had. She turned from him to hide the defeat on her face but he knows what he's done to her. He had hurt her again. Her words ran through his mind, "I don't count". And he knew that once again she felt like she didn't matter. The spasm of his heart forced the words from their hiding place and out through his lips. "You didn't read anything wrong Molly," he huffs out before he can stop himself.

She is on her way to the door when she stops walking, slowly turning to face him. "What?"

He lets out a frustrated sigh and scrubs his hands through his curls. He starts pacing as he speaks, unable to look at anything but the carpet as though his courage could be found there in the pattern.

"You didn't read anything wrong, Molly. But...I can't. I don't..." He scrubs his hands through his hair again. He turns from his pacing in front of the mantel piece and holds his hands up in front of him. "Don't you see, Molly?" His eyes hold a plead she doesn't know how to answer. He drops his hands to his sides and turns back to the mantel, exhaling slowly, bracing himself. "I'm in love with you, Molly. Don't you see?"

He drops his head, hands threading through his hair again as he falls silent. Molly's bag and coat slip from the arms she has dropped to her sides, too stunned by his confession to do anything but gape.

He turns suddenly and points to the laptop on his desk as he walks towards it. "This...this I understand. Cases, facts." His hands wildly gesticulating as he speaks. "They're quantifiable, logical. They make sense. Do you see?"

His face suddenly clouds over, brow furrowed as he looks at her again, pain etched on his beautiful features. "But sentiment...I don't know how, Molly"

He's in pain and she has to save him from himself. She always has to save him.

"I know this is new but don't be afraid Sherlock, I won't hurt you." She takes 2 slow steps towards him.

"Hurt me?" He scoffs, a sardonic smile pulling at his lips. "Moriarty could hurt me, Molly. You could destroy me".

He looks right at her now, pleading with her to understand what he really means. Hoping she can see the truth trapped in the cage of his ribs, words he can't find, the way she always has before.

And Molly doesn't disappoint. She understands everything in that moment.

She understands that she has loved before, she has lost before and gotten over the men that broke her heart. True, she has been unable to get over Sherlock but there was no loss there, no breakup for her to mourn, only hope. She understands then that he is not worried about hurting her. He knows he will, of course, but he knows that he could never truly break her. But Sherlock...well, he's never met a force like Molly before, a soft stream trickling over rock, eroding it's way slowly to his heart. He's never loved before, not like this. And loving her is the hardest thing he has ever done because when he finally loves, he loves forever. He know that if she gets tired of his idiosyncrasies and leaves, she really could destroy him. If he truly gave himself to her, he would never get that back, he would never fully be whole again. This man rushes fearlessly into danger, sacrifices himself for the lives of his friends and yet is afraid of her, of what she could do to him.

That understanding leaves Molly simultaneously full to overflowing and completely empty.

"Sherlock, it's always been you. Only you. It always will be" She whispers softly as she walks slowly towards him. His head snaps to her face, desperately searching for the truth he is hesitant to accept from her words. She watches the ebb and flow of emotions as he finds what he's looking for, his legs give way and he sinks to his armchair, once more scrubbing his hands through his curls.

Molly walks up where to he is seated and drops to her knees in front of him, grabbing his large hands from his curls and holding them so softly in hers. "I love you Sherlock, I always will".

His hands suddenly move from her hands to her face, fingers wrapping themselves in hair as he pulls her face to his for a kiss, slow and gentle and full of all the promises he doesn't know the words for. His hand drops from her hair to her waist and he pulls her until she is flush against his body, deepening the kiss, pouring out the years of love he has carried for her. He leans back with her in his lap and she lifts her legs over the armrest, settling into his arms but never moving her lips from his in fear of waking from a dream. When the need for air becomes to much he finally pulls away. Panting, he drops his forehead to hers, inhaling her exhales, breathing her air into his dusty lungs. He tucks her head to his shoulder and rests his cheek on hers. Tightening the grip around her waist, he pulls her closer, content only when he feels the tattoo of his heart in her chest.


End file.
